


La Vita Nuova

by gayhoneyboob, nataliaromanovas



Category: Talented Mr Ripley (1999)
Genre: (only a small hint), First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, this is. as pure as it can be becus the film killed me and now im dead and need to be resurrected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 02:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayhoneyboob/pseuds/gayhoneyboob, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nataliaromanovas/pseuds/nataliaromanovas
Summary: Peter tasted holy, he was pure and divine, each kiss like a burning prayer on his lips.





	La Vita Nuova

**Author's Note:**

> ok so basically peter smith-kingsley is the best person to ever exist and he deserved. so much better. this was a collaboration between me and my wife as you can see although i got a bit carried away and probably wrote about 2/3 of it rather than a nice even split. special shout out to her for looking up info about safe-sex in the 50s even tho i singlehandedly wrote the Raunchy bits just so i didn't have to ruin my search history. love u. title from dante

Peter Smith-Kingsley had always thought the _Basilica di San Marco_ was one of the most beautiful sights to behold in all of Venice; the gilded domes and marble columns were a perfect example of the wonders of the Byzantine order. So of course, when the dashing and alluringly mysterious Tom Ripley finally showed up in the city which had stolen Peter's heart, it felt like his duty to take him there. The late winter air was refreshing, bringing out the flush in both his and Tom's cheeks as they strolled through the piazza, occasionally brushing shoulders, as their breath misted and danced passionately in front of them. The distant sound of a street violinist could be heard - an excerpt of Vivaldi's Four Seasons - and Peter could not stop the grin that took hold of his face as he looked down at Tom. The two men were content in their silence, the tranquility of the scene warming them better than the multitude of layers they were wearing. As they reached the middle of the piazza, it began to snow, white flakes twisting through the air like leading lovers in a ballet. Peter held out his hand in attempt to catch a few snowflakes, his eyes turned up towards the heavens in awe, shoulder still pressed firmly against Tom's. 

"The Italian word for snowfall is _'nevicata'_. Have you ever heard anything more beautiful?" Peter asked, his eyes drifting from Tom's eyes to his lips as he spoke.

Tom smiled, not answering, and looked around. There were a few pigeons nestled snugly under the building's overhangs, sheltered from the snowfall. He saw how close the pigeons were and was reminded of the warm shoulder pressed against his own. Then he looked up, and saw Peter still looking at him expectantly.

"Oh! Uh," Tom started awkwardly. "No. I haven't. It's a... that's a beautiful word."

Though Tom was embarrassed, a flush not caused by the cold rising on his cheeks, Peter couldn't help but smile. He loved how nervous the enigmatic Mr Ripley was - he was a mystery to him, yet he felt completely at ease around him, like he'd known him forever. He felt a pang of sadness as Tom moved on and the warmth on his shoulder faded away.

Not planning on stopping inside yet, they walked in comfortable silence for a few streets before they came across a tiny café nestled between a hotel and a large chain restaurant. The sign on the front read _'Salvezza'_. There was something about how tiny it was between two hulking buildings that drew Peter to it, and without a word to Tom, he gently took his hand and led him through the low mahogany door. Peter didn't miss the fact that Tom didn't protest the hand holding.

The heady scent of cigarettes and women's perfume was almost choking as Peter and Tom made their way to a table in the corner of the café. The windows were misted with a combination of the body heat of the patrons and the smoke they were producing, making the view of the square and its surrounding buildings look fuzzy and disconnected from reality. In fact, if it weren't for the persistent clinking of metal cutlery and the never-ending buzz of conversation to ground him in reality, Peter could have easily believed he and Tom and this moment were the only things that truly existed in the world. 

"Do you know what you would like to order?" Peter asked with a fond smile after giving Tom enough time to frown at the menu. 

"I suppose I would like an American coffee but I can't make sense of much of this at all," Tom stumbled over his words slightly and rubbed at the back of his neck, a sure sign that he was embarrassed, and, unless Peter was mistaken, he was most certainly blushing rather fiercely. Peter's smile only grew wider at this before he offered his help. 

"Don't worry, Tom. Leave it all to me," Peter began, then he turned and waved over a waitress with a notebook in her hand and pencil tucked behind her ear. Her skirt swished and swayed with her voluminous hips, but Tom paid her no attention, his eyes never leaving Peter's face, drinking in every last curve and line and dimple. 

_"Vorrei un espresso, e per il mio amico, un caffè americano, per favore."_ Peter's accent was enchanting and Tom couldn't help but notice the way his heart noticeably sped up. Peter made him feel alive; something he was sure he hadn't felt for years now. It was this realisation, that Tom Ripley might just love Peter Smith-Kingsley, which jolted him back into his body from his dazed stupor, where upon he realised he was still staring at the man. Feeling altogether far too self-conscious for his liking, Tom cleared his throat and looked pointedly anywhere but Peter's face, the melodious knowing laugh this was met with only served to darken Tom's flushed cheeks. Then a hand was on his knee, just for the briefest of seconds, and Tom felt all his breath leave his lungs.

Tom breathed in quickly (to hide the fact that he had temporarily forgotten how) and choked on the thick smoke permeating the air. He coughed once and Peter patted his back, his strong yet gentle hand easing his breathing within moments. Peter smiled at Tom, before turning to see the waitress arriving with their coffees.  
_"Grazie,_ " Peter said graciously and she winked at him, walking away with even more of a swing to her hips. Peter's eyes didn't linger at all, however, he was busy staring into Tom's eyes.  
"Try the coffee," he suggested, taking a sip of his own. Tom took a tentative sip before his eyes lit up.  
"That's," he breathed, "incredible!"  
Even with the heavy odor of cologne and cigarettes on his tongue, Tom could still make out the sweet sugary notes and bitterness in the coffee he was tasting. Peter smiled at him, glad he was enjoying the drink.  
"So," he said after a while, after they'd sipped some more coffee and looked around the dim interior of the café. Tom looked up at him through his thick-rimmed glasses.  
"Yes?"  
Peter took a deep breath.  
"Are you seeing anyone?" 

Tom wished more than anything that he had not chosen that moment to finish his americano as he choked and spluttered on the dregs. 

"A-Am I what?" Tom eventually asked between coughs, the pitch of his voice seemingly raised an octave. 

"What I mean to say, Tom, is that you weren't entirely truthful with that police officer the other day, were you?" Peter paused and Tom's heart stopped, this time for a different reason. "You don't truly have a fiancée waiting for you back in New York, do you?" 

Tom felt his blood start pumping in his veins again, relieved that this was all that Peter doubted was true. He wanted to be good for Peter, to be honest and open and loyal to him; there was something about the way the man wore every emotion on his face that made him, for the first time in his life, want to just be _Tom Ripley_. Perhaps it was this realisation that made his next response bare his soul in a way he had never dared to do so before.

"You're right, Peter, you're right. You see, I've never exactly had an... _eye_ for women, so to speak," Tom leant in, his voice just above a whisper as he revealed this, his deepest, most closely guarded secret to the beautiful man before him. His eyes were drawn to Peter's plump lips and the way his tongue darted out over them, suddenly aware of the stifling hotness of the café. Then, so as to be sure his intentions could not be confused, Tom mimicked their earlier touch and brought his shaking hand to rest hesitantly on Peter's thigh under the table. 

Tom felt a rush of relief as Peter didn't pull his leg away. Rather, he seemed to lift his leg into the touch, before leaning over the table.  
"Me neither," Peter whispered, his lips quirking up in a smile. Tom felt all his blood rush downwards and gather in his nether regions. He pressed his knees together and took a shuddering breath.  
The moment was incredible - their hearts had been poured into the air between them, the stifling, smoky café forgotten in that instant, as they stared into each other's eyes with newfound understanding.  
Then the moment was ruined as Tom saw - behind Peter - a woman staring at them with horror on her face and disgust in her eyes. Looking around, he saw a few other patrons looking at them with the same expressions. His face flushed again, but this time it wasn't for a good reason. By this point, Peter had realised too, and he stood as a waiter came to hover by their table.  
_"Grazie per il caffè,"_ Peter said curtly, motioning subtley for Tom to get up too. The waiter and the other café's patrons watched them leave in silence.

Peter and Tom walked through the piazza in silence, the snow having turned to wetter half-frozen rain. Peter brushed his hand against Tom's experimentally and was shocked when he jolted away and stiffened as though scolded, before turning to check that they had not been followed. Tom stopped and closed his eyes, trying to swallow down the bile rising in his throat, the accompanying unpleasant memories of New York flashing before his eyes. 

"I should go," Tom spoke so softly that his voice was almost lost in the bustle of the square and he turned his body away from Peter - away from temptation. 

"But we haven't been inside the _Basilica di San Marco_ yet, the interior frescos are to die for and it would be a-" Peter's flow of passion for the building stopped abruptly and when Tom finally opened his eyes and dared to glance at him, he noticed that his brow was creased with worry. 

"Are you quite alright, Tom? You look as pale as a sheet! Come, you must accompany me back to my house, I have some Campari in my liquor cabinet that will help to settle your nerves," Peter continued, his soft voice as soothing as a matron's yet still alluringly sultry. 

Tom went to half-heartedly protest, the fear of being so nearly exposed in the café screaming at him to do nothing other than run - run as he had done all his life. However, the small hopeful smile that Peter gave him as he warily moved his hand to Tom's yet again quelled all his doubts. Tom returned the gesture with a shaky smile of his own and nodded as they began to walk out of the piazza and towards Peter's house.

The walk back was tense. They reached Peter's front door and he let them in quietly, wiping his feet on the doormat before hanging his jacket up. Tom copied and then followed him into the main room. He tried to hide a shiver, not wanting to be a bother nor look foolish for taking his jacket off even though he was cold, but it seemed that Peter had noticed as he soon had a roaring fire going on in the fireplace. Tom shifted close to it and held his hands out, warming them and closing his eyes with bliss.  
Peter left the room and came back a few minutes later with two glasses and the Campari. He poured some out for them both and sat a little way away from Tom, watching him carefully with unreadable eyes. Tom sipped his drink and resisted leaping up and hugging Peter for how good it really was. It didn't just calm his nerves, it also got him thinking about what had happened in the café.  
Tom didn't know what to think. It had been a horrific moment - everyone staring at them as if they were abominations - but it had been truly magical. He had never felt so at home around anyone. Not around Dickie, certainly not around Marge, and not around anyone else he had ever met. No, there was something about Peter that got his heart racing and his skin flushing. Little did he know, Peter felt the exact same way.

Sensing that Tom's mind had begun to wander once more, Peter wordlessly poured them both another glass of Campari from the crystal decanter on top of his liquor cabinet. He walked over to Tom with their glasses in hand and a deliberate, calculated swing of his hips, not unlike the waitress from the café. Tom caught himself staring and looked away quickly, blaming the heat he felt in his throat and the fuzziness in his head on the bitter orange drink pooling in his stomach. The two shared a heady silence as intoxicating as the alcohol they were sipping on, thick with the promise of something more, for quite some time. It was Peter who first dared to break this silence,

"You know, I don't think I have ever met anyone quite as enchanting as you are, Tom Ripley."

Tom looked away, suddenly feeling altogether too raw and vulnerable. Peter, however, set his glass down and took Tom's hands gently in his own, rubbing his thumb in reassuring circles against his knuckles until he looked him in the eyes again. When he was sure he had Tom's full attention, Peter continued, complete seriousness saturating his soft voice, 

"I'm rather taken with you, Tom. I-I find myself thinking about you every waking hour, about the soft curve of your lips, the strong set of your jaw and the hint of sadness in your eyes - you consume me."

Peter was blushing himself by this point, something he didn't do often, and his eyes were wild as a deer in the headlamps of a car as he waited for Tom to say something, anything to reassure him his intentions were not misplaced. Tom didn't say anything, however, and instead wrenched his hands free to loop one arm around Peter's waist and the other to bring his head down slightly. Shakily, Tom craned his neck up to close the last few inches between them, and then his lips were on Peter's. His glasses bumped against Peter's nose due to the awkward angle, startling Tom enough that he pulled away. Peter's hands flew to Tom's face immediately to reassure him and he gave a small tender smile before he removed Tom's glasses and set them down on top of the liquor cabinet they were now pressed against. 

"Truth be told, I'm rather taken with you too, Peter," Tom whispered breathlessly, his usually restless eyes settled on Peter's, tone as sincere as if he were at Confession. 

At this admission, Peter leant down again, hands gripping the cabinet either side of Tom to steady his suddenly weak legs, and kissed him. The kiss started slowly at first, but as Tom's carefully constructed walls crumbled and he melted into Peter's body, all timidness dissipated and Peter's passion began to leak through, burning hotter than the roaring fire in the hearth or the long forgotten Campari. When they broke apart, swollen lips and heaving chests, the two men blinked at eachother and understood that in that moment something between them had changed forever - they could never go back from this.

Peter wasted no time in leaning back in and capturing Tom's lips again, his closed eyes opening quickly when Tom kissed him back with unexpected ferocity. It seemed as if he were finally coming into his own.  
"Steady on," Peter murmured with a smile, gazing into Tom's eyes, noting the long eyelashes and sparkling irises usually hidden behind his glasses. His eyes were beautifully opalescent.

Tom felt a surge of confidence and pressed his hands against Peter's chest, pushing him down to lie on the floor, the kiss never ceasing. Peter inhaled sharply as the coolness of the floor seeped through his turtleneck, the warmth of Tom's lips on his and the sensation of his hands on his chest sending bolts of heat from head to toe. Where he wasn't in contact with Tom he felt empty; fulfilled where they touched. It was a perfect moment ruined by a knock at the door.

Tom broke away, gasping for breath, his gelled fringe hanging over his forehead. He quickly fumbled to put his glasses on.  
"I'll get it," he offered, standing and pivoting to answer the door before Peter was even upright. He heard the door swing open followed by,  
"Tom! I didn't expect to find you here!"  
Marge's voice rang clear as day through Peter's house. He sighed, knowing it would be a while until he and Tom would be alone again, and stood up. He brushed his clothes off and straightened his hair just as Marge entered the room, closely followed by Tom, his glasses slightly askew.

"Peter, are you alright?" Marge asked suspiciously, taking in his dishevelled appearance and heated face as she removed her gloves. 

"O-Oh, I'm sorry Marge, I wasn't expecting you," Peter began, his heart still threatening to pound through his ribcage, eyes darting back and forth between anything except Marge. 

"What do you mean you weren't expecting me? You were the one who invited me for dinner at seven o'clock sharp!" Marge narrowed her eyes at Tom and opened her mouth as if to interrogate him, but Peter deflected what was to come by thinking on his feet,

"Oh of course, of course. Do forgive me Marge, Tom and I have been rehearsing duets together all afternoon. There's nothing like a bit of Chopin to make a man lose track of all time and sense of self." Peter paused to take in a much needed breath before continuing, "I'm afraid I haven't put together a meal yet, do bear with me while I cook up some _penne all'arrabbiata_. Please, Tom, stay with us - I have plenty of pasta to use up - it's best eaten when fresh."

And with that, Peter turned and sauntered towards the doorway connecting the reception room and the kitchen, but before he disappeared he turned to his guests and called out,

"There are olives, tapenade and breadsticks on the table in the dining room - just go through and help yourself." He gave one last lingering look at Tom before he was gone, whistling a tune which grew quieter and quieter as he got further away. 

Tom and Marge sat at the dinner table in uneasy silence until Peter returned with the pasta about three quarters of an hour later. The dish was absolutely divine, a credit to Peter's cookery skills, and Tom made this known through the verging on lewd moans he made through mouthfuls. Peter had to exact revenge upon Tom for the things those noises were doing to his body, and so, halfway through the meal, he began to slowly slide a foot up his leg. Peter parted Tom's willing thighs and worked his foot up higher, kneeding his heel into the other man's groin. At this sudden contact, Tom's hips bucked wantonly and he began to choke on the sip of white wine he had taken. 

"A bit too hot for your liking, Mr Ripley?" Peter all but purred, accompanied by a look so utterly sinful Tom could hardy supress his urge to pounce Peter right then and there, Marge or no Marge. 

"I think you'll find this level of heat is precisely to my liking, Mr Smith-Kingsley," Tom retorted, trying his best to be subtly sultry, but he found he could still not stop choking on the damned wine. He poured himself some water from the jug on the table and made a deliberate show of drinking it slowly when he noticed how Peter's gaze was fixed on Tom's throat working to swallow it all. 

When the three of them had finished the penne, Peter stood and tucked in his chair, the wooden legs screeching over the tiled floor. He stacked their plates and smiled, proud that everyone had cleared all the food, not even a smear of sauce left as they had soaked it up with ciabatta. 

"I have a few panna cottas in the refrigerator - I was practicing making them this morning and six looked presentable enough to serve. Let me go and see if they are set." Peter dipped his head and excused himself, but not prior to sending Tom a meaningful look. 

Tom counted to one hundred several times over in his head to steady his nerves, until he heard a clatter in the kitchen followed by a muffled curse. Marge immediately went to stand, but Tom urged her to sit back down with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

"Don't you worry yourself over it Marge, I'll go check on him." Marge frowned at him sceptically, but before she could voice her complaints, Tom was on his way to the kitchen. 

When he reached the doorway, he was surprised to find everything was in order and no panna cottas had found a new home on the kitchen floor. Tom walked over to Peter and smirked as he realised that the commotion was all part of his plan to steal a few moments alone together. 

"Well Peter - you're devilishly handsome, a heavenly musician and an exquisite cook - are there any other talents of yours I've yet to discover?" Tom asked, looking up at Peter coyly through his long, doll-like eyelashes. Before Peter could respond to that, Tom had him pinned against the kitchen counter, arms flung around his lover's neck and knee pressed between his thighs as they kissed without fear. The sheer desperation of the kiss was enough to send both their minds spinning in an intoxicating haze of uninhibited love. They broke apart briefly, foreheads pressed together, taking in gulping breaths, before their lips met again in a newly found frenzy, the rest of the world entirely abandoned in this moment. It was as Tom's eyelashes fluttered closed while Peter's tongue explored his mouth that he realised, perhaps he was not doomed to a life of loneliness and lies. For the first time ever, Tom felt content - he felt whole - and he sighed in pleasure into the kiss.

Tom pressed his knee further up, exerting pressure on Peter's groin, mirroring the trick he was subjected to under the dinner table. Peter groaned in response, throwing his head up towards the ceiling with abandon and exposing more of the pale neck that was hidden behind his turtleneck. Tom, ever one to take the opportune moment, leant up and kissed from Peter's jaw down his neck, pausing to bite and suck on his pulse point, enjoying the way he moaned and pressed against his touch. Pulling his lips away ever so lightly, Tom whispered onto Peter's neck, his breath tickling the sensitive skin,

"You're beautiful."

Peter let his eyes slide shut as the whisper reached his ears. He smiled gently, whispering,  
"So are you."  
Tom felt a rush of heat run through him. He could still taste the words on his tongue, saccharine sweet and dripping with desire. Their lips met again, Peter's hands clutching at Tom's front with a desperate, deep hunger.

Meanwhile, Marge was still sitting at the table, happily full but slightly suspicious. She had heard nothing from the kitchen for a long time and, while not wanting to intrude, she felt as if she needed to say something. She needed to head home soon - not minding if she didn't get dessert - but she couldn't leave without thanking her gracious, strangely absent host first. She stood up from the table.

In the kitchen, Peter froze as he heard Marge's chair scrape back. He hurriedly stood up straight and shoved Tom into the pantry, shutting the door just as Marge walked in.  
"Marge!" he said, conscious of the vague squawk in his voice. He cleared his throat, then tried again. "Marge!"  
She smiled, a touch of doubt in her eyes, looking around.  
"Where's Tom?"  
"Oh, he's... in the bathroom," Peter said quickly.  
"Oh! Okay," she said, clearly not entirely convinced. "I was about to head home. Shall we meet again next week?"  
Peter nodded jerkily, waving at her awkwardly as she smiled again and walked out. As soon as he heard his front door close he breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to the pantry door.

As soon as Peter opened the door, Tom came tumbling out, clearly leaning against the wood in attempt to hear what was going on. 

"She's gone?" Tom questioned, a trace of concern in the quirk of his brow as he smoothed down his rumpled shirt. 

"So it would seem." Peter chewed on his lip apprehensively, his mind racing as he considered his next move carefully. 

"Now that we are alone once more," Peter continued, very deliberately running his gaze over Tom, "perhaps you would be interested in taking a look at the new score I have been working on? I believe the sheets are on my desk in the main bedroom."

Peter flashed an alluring smile and beckoned Tom over with a curl of his finger. Tom returned the smile with equal innuendo and, as if to add even more tension to to the air, undid the top button of his shirt. Peter tugged his lapels and pulled him close.

"Shall we peruse them?" he whispered. Tom responded by grabbing Peter's wrist in a gentle albeit firm grip, yanking him out of the room and up the stairs. They barely made it to the top of the staircase before Tom had undone the rest of the buttons on his shirt, Peter tearing his jumper over his head and throwing it to the side. Tom then kissed Peter with wild abandon, pressing his back against his bedroom door. Under their weight, it swung open and they staggered in - nearly falling but managing to regain their footing - before landing on the bed with Tom on top. Peter lay breathless and supine, his fringe hanging over his brow, his face flushed and chest heaving. Tom's hot breath ghosted over his bare throat and he could barely suppress his desires. Tom's glasses had fallen off somewhere and were forgotten, his eyes bright with arousal and his lips parted. His hands were either side of Peter's head, penning him in. Peter didn't mind.

Suddenly, Tom's lips were on his again, wild and desperate and hot with desire. It intrigued Peter to see the usually guarded man so undone, causing a streak of pride to thrum through him as he realised he was the cause of this. Peter shivered and moaned into the kiss as Tom's hands, teasingly light, stroked their way down his torso, tickling the sensitive skin surrounding his navel. Peter arched into Tom's touch as his hand palmed his arousal through his trousers, eyes fluttering closed, then open again, as if in disbelief this was real - he'd thought about it often enough for it to just be another dream. 

Tom pulled away from Peter's mouth and removed his hand from his crotch, and he vaguely registered a whining noise which he supposed must have come from him at the loss of contact. However, Peter was quickly appeased as Tom set about using his talents elsewhere, a tongue dipping into his navel and licking a trail down the fine hairs that disappeared under the waistband of his slacks. Struggling to keep control himself, Peter's hips bucked upwards as Tom began to mouth at his crotch through fine fabric, the heat driving him wild with lust. Peter's hands grasped at the sheets in a frenzied fit of unrestrained passion, he couldn't take this level of teasing much longer. 

"There's some K-Y jelly and a packet of condoms in the bedside drawer," Peter said between laboured breaths, indicating towards the wooden cabinet with his eyes and a nod of his head. Tom removed his mouth from Peter's groin and looked up at him, confusion evident on his flushed face. 

"Peter, I've never, uh, y'know-" Tom couldn't bring himself to finish, embarrassment causing him to look away in shame. Peter brought his hands to Tom's face and gently turned it back towards him, such tenderness and love in the gesture that Tom felt guilty - he didn't deserve someone so perfect. 

"Shhh, Tom, I won't make you do anything you don't want to. We could stop right now and I would never hold it against you," Peter whispered, holding Tom close while rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. 

"Oh no, Peter, believe me - I want to. Very much so. It's just, I-I don't know how," Tom continued, less embarrassed than before but still ashamed of his naïveté. 

Pushing Tom gently so he was straddling his hips, Peter twisted his torso and opened the draw, rummaged around briefly before taking out the lubrication and a condom, then turned back to Tom and whispered in his ear,  
"I can show you how. I can show you how to make love to me, Tom. I can make it so good for you."  
Tom shuddered at the raw sensuality running through Peter's low soft tone, then drew his mouth down in a fervent kiss. Peter tasted holy, he was pure and divine, each kiss like a burning prayer on his lips. Clumsy fingers coerced Peter's belt buckle open and he worked first his trousers and then his underwear off, before allowing Peter to do the same for him. The items of clothing soon joined their shirts on the floor, flung without a care as to where they should land in the heat of passion. 

Tom kissed him once more then, pushing him back in to the matress with careful force, before he drew back and awaited instruction. Peter tore off the corner of the little packet containing the condom and put it on for Tom. He then began to work the K-Y Jelly on to Tom's cock, causing a guttural groan to escape the younger man's throat and his head span so much Tom hardly felt as though he were in his own body anymore. It was the sound of Peter's voice which grounded him in the moment, silky and inviting as he spoke,

"The first thing to do is to prepare me. Watch what I do and if you feel like you can do it, you can take over." Peter searched Tom's face to make sure he was alright and followed up with a question to verbally confirm it,  
"Does that sound alright to you, hm?"  
Peter waited until Tom nodded his assent before moving a slick finger to his own enterance, pushing it inside, hissing through his teeth at the promise of fullness. He looked up again to make sure Tom was watching and subsequently added another finger, taking in another shaky breath as he stretched himself. 

"Do you think you can do that, Tom?" Peter questioned, practically panting with the effort of controlling himself. When Tom spoke his acquiescence, it was barely audible, his arousal so intense that he found it nigh impossible to form sentences. Tom slicked up his fingers and began by adding one, then two and finally three fingers into Peter's willing body. He curled and unfurled the digits inside him, pushing and twisting and stroking, until he brushed against Peter's prostate, causing his lover to writhe and curse in pleasure. 

"I'm ready, Tom. Take me now," Peter moaned, his head thrown back and eyes closed in hedonistic indulgence. He may have been naïve, but Tom knew enough to understand what to do next. He eased into Peter slowly at first, startled when his lover took in a sharp breath through his teeth for fear he hurt him. Peter ran a hand through Tom's hair and kissed him sloppily in reassurance. 

"Move. Please, Tom, move, I-" Peter started, but was cut off by a moan as Tom began to withdraw then thrust steadily back into Peter. The feeling of tightness threatened to undo Tom completely at any moment, beads of sweat pouring onto his brow in exertion - a sensation that only grew more intense as Tom drove against Peter's sweet spot once more and his muscles clenched around his shaft - and he felt as though he could see only coloured lights and blurred shapes. 

"Touch me, Tom, please!" came Peter's voice, begging and pleading and making Tom feel so real, so whole. He raked his hands over every inch of Peter's skin, fingernails leaving red marks to match the ones Peter had given him from clawing at his back. Then, Tom took hold of Peter's own arousal, twisting his wrist here, pulling there, causing utterances of _"oh, God"_ and _"don't stop"_ and _"harder, faster"_ until Tom had matched the pace with his thrusts. Peter came shouting Tom's name, his body convulsing and clenching around him, the sensation bringing Tom to his own completion with a sharp cry. 

Tom pulled out of Peter, rolled off the used condom with trembling hands, and he padded over to put in the bin before curling up against his lover in bliss. He absentmindedly ran a finger through the spent seed on Peter's stomach and brought it to his mouth, licking it clean. The taste wasn't unpleasant, it was Peter, yet Tom wondered how some people could swallow more than that, and so he fetched a washcloth from the ensuite to clean him. Peter sighed in content, smoothed Tom's hair back and snaked his arms around his waist in a tender embrace, an ethereal smile never leaving his face which did nothing to quell the impression that Peter was sent from the heavens to save his sorry soul. They lay there for quite some time, eyes closed and chests heaving as they regained their breath, before Tom buried his head in the crook of Peter's neck - inhaling his scent - and whispered, 

"I love you, Peter Smith-Kingsley." Tom didn't move his head to look up, but the way that Peter's arms tightened around him and the muscles in his neck moved, he could tell that he was grinning even wider now. Peter kissed the top of Tom's head and murmured back,

"I love you too, Thomas Ripley."  
Tom was grinning too, a smile so genuine that it threatened to tear his face in two. He nuzzled further into Peter's hold, their limbs intertwining in a way that assured him total and complete safety. Tom was still smiling as he fell asleep, plastered against the man he loved.

**Author's Note:**

> ps: i haven't done italian since i was in year 9 aka since 2013 so please let me know if there are any mistakes in what peter says!


End file.
